


breakfast time

by bitter_edge



Category: Lobotomy Corporation (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, POV First Person, Peanut Butter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-11 20:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19548322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitter_edge/pseuds/bitter_edge
Summary: He still wants the peanut butter. He’s probably done worse on this floor. And it is a very expansive and empty floor. The floor could have peanut butter on it, which he would like, because then he could eat it. He can’t quite muster the arm strength up to shatter the jar right this second but maybe if he closes his eyes for like just three minutes or something he will feel good enough to do the thing.---Netzach faces an age-old struggle.





	breakfast time

It’s dead in the nighttime simulated by the Qliploth Deterrence. The lights in his office are cut low to save on power consumption, and it’s dark in a way that would make him sleepy if he did not want to drink the alcohol.

Netzach gets smashed in a record number of cans. Since time isn’t real anyway, you know, he asserts to himself. This is a good thing. It is amazing how the human immune system can evolve, he thinks to himself, and cracks open another can of beer--because just because he’s reached the goalpost doesn’t mean he can’t keep running. He smacks his lips, the fizz dying out on his tongue, the taste of the alcohol getting weaker and weaker. Maybe he should have something else now. 

“Maybe I should have somethign else now,” he slurs to himself quietly as he gets up from his chair. Yes. Something else would be great. Just to break up the taste(?) of the beer. That sounds about right, and it continues to as he shuffles over to the minibar in the corner of his office. It is a vast, empty expanse of sleek greens and blacks and golds, and in times like this he wishes it were a closet, except it’s nice that sometimes he gets to sprawl out on all the floor so not really. The minibar is right in front of him. It swings open with the use of his handy-dandy hand, but much to Netzach’s dismay the only thing in the fridge that is not Enkephalin or another can of beer--he’s really got to pester someone for other brands sometime--is a solitary jar of peanut butter.

It’s the crunchy kind, though, so this is great. This will be just fine. The glass of the jar is cold in his hands even after he’s done scooting back to lean against the front of his desk. All he has to do now is turn it.

So he lays his hand flat on the lid, fingers tight around the rim, and turns it to the right.

He turns it.

He keeps trying to turn it.

Okay, maybe it’s not that kind of jar. He digs his fingers underneath the lid and pulls upward.

He pulls harder. 

God damn it, he cannot believe this. The jar refuses to open. He’s no Geburah or Binah but he is the head of the security team, even if he’s spent the last thousand decades or whatever sitting on his ass, it can’t possibly be that his muscles shrank, right?

Nevermind, no, yeah, that’s probably it or something. Netzach cards a hand into his hair, nails scraping at his scalp in frustration. He really wants to get into this peanut butter now, regardless of the state of his physique. Preferably before he passes out or sobers up, while the mood is just right. He leaves the peanut butter on his desk under his lamp--maybe it will be easier to open if it gets warmer. This scans with an astounding amount of sense, and Netzach pats himself on the back for the quick long-play solution while he rummages in his cabinet for one that won’t take all night--a variety of pistols, some wacky-looking scythes, a crossbow, really just a gratuitous amount of club-shaped objects, a jar of pink something he tells himself he’ll try some other night he needs a new kick, but there’s nothing that looks like it will get him into this jar right now. 

Wait, no, scratch that. Gun. Duh. He reaches for one of the pistols, positions the jar on the desk, and shoots straight through the desk. It isn’t a very clean shot at all--the fiber grows dark at the edges of the splinters. “So tables can take black damage too huh,” Netzach thought. Okay, one more. Maybe three. His aim is really not great. He throws the gun back into the open drawer and it skids across the floor to some point in that general area.

And then it hits him: his foot, of course. With all the running away Netzach does surely his foot will be strong enough to open the jar, he thinks.  
Ha.

Anyway, the jar. He sits his ass back on the floor and wedges the toe of his shoe underneath the lid and holds the glass jar down as he tries to wait this isn’t working okay all right. He takes his foot off the jar and inspects the surface for cracks. There isn’t a single one, which is insane. Or maybe it really isn’t? 

Wait a minute. What if he threw it? 

Netzach stops for a minute to think about this. 

He still wants the peanut butter. He’s probably done worse on this floor. And it is a very expansive and empty floor. The floor could have peanut butter on it, which he would like, because then he could eat it. He can’t quite muster the arm strength up to shatter the jar right this second but maybe if he closes his eyes for like just three minutes or something he will feel good enough to do the thing. 

Maybe even other things, somehow, miraculously. Wouldn’t that be something…? 

His consciousness slips.

When Netzach wakes up the lights in his office are brighter, with, as usual, a terrible headache. 

Nobody is pounding on his door for him to wake up for once, and he takes stock of his surroundings; from the beer cans scattered on his floor, to the gun laying on the ground next to a chest of E.G.O. weapons, to the jar of peanut butter laying on his desk. 

He takes the jar in hand and turns the lid to the left. The lid pops open with ease. 

“Breakfast is served,” Netzach mutters to himself. He sticks as much of his hand in his jar as it will fit, scoops the peanut butter out and eats it off his fingers.

**Author's Note:**

> saw a prompt to write a scene about someone opening a jar of peanut butter with no interference on twitter from an author i follow, and then the scene turned into a fic oops


End file.
